I curse.
He slowly bends over and picks it up for me.
His eyes start sparkling over my expression of frustration, and he passes me the pencil, raising his brows. He smiles a little sardonically, looking into my eyes.
I hold the pencil tightly. I hold his gaze, hold my breath, hold on to this moment. The seconds tick by to the throbbing beat of my heart when he whispers, “Go on, Regina.”
Tahoe’s voice is lower than usual, his drawl noticeable.
He smiles a little and then when he reaches out to rumple my hair, keeps smiling with his eyes the way he usually does, as if I amuse him. Exhaling, I straighten my halo, gather myself, and start to paint him.
He watches me as I lean in with a dark pencil.
I draw the outline of a mask across the top of his face. I ease back to survey my handiwork. I’ve been studying his face for minutes when I become aware of that intense gaze of his, crystal clear, fixed on me.
My breath keeps leaving me.
It’s not just how gorgeous Tahoe’s eyes are—it’s how they stare so unflinchingly at me.
I lean close enough to apply the paint and he smells so good I feel lightheaded. His breathing changes a little bit as I apply the black paint slowly to his face, around his eyes, over his skin. I change sides, and he inhales deeply as I lean over again, applying more paint. His hand comes up to grip my waist, and he shuts his eyes and just holds me as I add his mask, the moment exquisitely intimate.
“Why do you even need a mask when you wear a mask all the time?” I whisper.
“’Cause you can’t go showing people the worst parts of you. They don’t deserve it, and neither do you deserve to be judged for it.” He looks at me very deeply for the following moment. “You would know, Regina.” He tugs my costume dress. “Who are you?”
“An angel. Don’t you see my wings?” I turn around, grinning. “They’re invisible. What about you?”
He shrugs. My smile fades a little when he looks at me.
I picture him as the Phantom of the Opera. But his scars are not on his skin.
Silently, he grabs my waist again and pulls me closer so that I can continue drawing his mask. And I think of the Phantom, who thought the girl he loved, Christine, would end up with some other guy named Raoul, because the Phantom wasn’t worthy of her.
I ache for this beautiful, wounded man that I’ve fallen so hopelessly for.
For twenty more minutes, I work in silence. But sometimes when my fingertips touch his face to hold him still, I sense him tense, his brows set in a straight line, jaw squaring, lips pinched as if he’s controlling some unnamable force within him.
When I’m done, he rises to his feet, obviously restless. I watch him walk to his bedroom and put on his black cape, his fingers tying it expertly. I don’t know why I helped him dress up, because all I want is to undress him.
As I try to quell the desire he causes in me, I hide in his bathroom, storing my makeup. When I come out with my bag, Tahoe is sitting in a chair, watching me, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.
I step into the room. “I broke up with Trent,” I blurt out without thinking.
There’s a long pause, as if the Earth stopped moving.
He narrows his eyes. “Do you want me to say I’m sorry you broke up with him? I’m not.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t come here to talk about my failure in relationships.”
A sad smirk appears. “Hell, Regina, I’m the last one qualified to judge anyone’s relationships.”
I duck my head, unable to look him in the eye.
I think he mistakes that for sadness, for when he speaks again, he sounds frustrated as he rises to his feet, walks up to me, and takes my shoulder in one hand, lifting my chin with the other. “Come on. That motherfucker isn’t worth it. You deserve so much better, Regina.” The admiration in his eyes nearly undoes me.
I want his lips. I want his hands all over me. I want his heart. His wounded beautiful heart he’s put on a shelf where nobody can reach it.
Being with him lately only hurts, only makes me realize nothing of what I’ve ever felt before was real, nothing was like this, nothing compares. It was a little flicker compared to a wildfire. A tiny prick of pain compared to a whole throbbing, all-consuming ache.
“You look even more beautiful when you’re upset,” he says softly, seizing my chin again, eyes perceptive and deep. The warmth of his gaze echoes in his voice. I’m enthralled by what I see there, swirling in his eyes. There’s a primal ferocity in his look, a hunger like I’ve never seen in a man’s eyes before. “Though I’m not too happy for you to be upset over a guy like Davis. A guy who…hell, any guy doesn’t deserve you being upset over him. Do you hear me?” he says in warning, his left eyebrow rising a fraction.